


You, To The Last

by CariZee



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassin!AU, Car Chases, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, dom!thranduil, sub!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariZee/pseuds/CariZee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And here Thranduil thought the worst part of his day would be dealing with Thorin Durinson...</p><p>In which Bard is an assassin-turned-bodyguard, Thranduil runs a smuggling empire and unhappily does business with Thorin, Bilbo is the only one with any sense and Lindir inadvertently facilitates some very deep conversation between our heroes.</p><p>Please note the tags: here be BDSM, as well as graphic violence in the later chapters.</p><p>Alternating Thranduil/Bard POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Your Mind Off It

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the Barduil Big Bang! Thanks very much to the organizers and everybody who's been patiently waiting for this fic to launch. Special, super, enormously huge thanks to my brilliant artist Sel, who did a sketch for each chapter of this fic, way above and beyond the call of duty. I've got two of them included so far, and will add the others when I get them, so please check back! I'm just so impressed, honestly, and so fortunate. I hope that my story lives up to its wonderful art.
> 
> Please give Sel all the praise, here's her Tumblr: http://sellleh.tumblr.com/
> 
> It feels gooood to be writing Barduil again. Who knows, more Tarry may be next on my list :)

 

 

 

Thranduil was a patient man. In some ways patience was his defining trait, more than his cold beauty or ruthless reputation. No matter what the circumstance, Thranduil Oropherion did not rush to judgment. He gathered facts, he analyzed statistics, he thought for a long time before committing to anything or anyone. His habits had garnered him no little scorn from allies and competitors alike, who prized a quick strike and a fast advantage over everything else. But Thranduil liked to think that the reason he didn’t have to scrabble in the mud like a common criminal for every meager advantage came from the fact that he took his time, planned for every detail, and then acted without second thoughts when the moment was right.

Well, and the fact that he had a large and loyal workforce at his disposal, but they wouldn’t have been so loyal if he wasn’t _right_ so often.

Right now, Thranduil was sitting in the dining room of his enormous townhouse, eating dinner with his right hand man, dedicated bodyguard and, a bit more recently, his lover, and wondering what Bard wasn’t telling him.

Not that Bard wasn’t an honest man. After years of hiding every emotion for fear of very real retribution if he revealed them to his former Master, Bard had done a good job of opening up to Thranduil. Thranduil would accept nothing less from a friend, and certainly not attempt a relationship with Bard if both of them hadn’t been willing to put in some effort. But there were still hang-ups, buried pockets of shame and guilt and fear surfacing every now and then, that Thranduil couldn’t predict.

“I don’t trust their security,” Bard said bluntly over their main course, a spicy vegetarian hotpot that he usually loved. Tonight he’d barely touched it. “The Durins are too arrogant to take actual reality into account. They’ve lost too many shipments to chalk up to bad luck, but Thorin won’t acknowledge that. Getting together with them like this is asking for trouble.”

“I agreed to this meeting a month ago,” Thranduil replied. “I can’t pull out of it without facing some very tedious consequences, not the least of which would be explaining to Bilbo,” here Bard winced, because no one wanted to disappoint Thorin’s husband; it was akin to kicking a very fierce, very cute puppy, “why I’m not attending the conference he went to so much trouble to set up in the first place.”

“Then bring more people.”

“I had to fight to get Tauriel and Feren approved as it is.”

“You can bring me. They won’t gainsay it.”

“You’re supposed to be getting the children while the meeting is going on.” Bard didn’t said anything, just turned his attention back to his plate without actually touching any of it. _Ah_. “Is there something you want to discuss about the children?”

“No.”

“Bard…”

“ _No_.” Which was a completely unacceptable answer, since now Bard was tense and unhappy, and Thranduil couldn’t have that.

Thranduil set aside his glass of wine and pushed his chair back a bit. “Come here.” Bard glared at him, and Thranduil glared right back. “Come here _now_ ,” he reiterated, and breathed a silent sigh of relief a moment later when Bard complied. Bard Bowman in a recalcitrant mood was as unpredictable as a lightning storm. “Kneel,” Thranduil said when Bard reached his side, and Bard knelt without question. “Head down.”

“Thranduil…”

“Head down, or I’ll tie you to my leg for the next hour.” Bard knew he was serious; they’d gone through an entire afternoon once with Bard literally strapped to Thranduil’s lap while Thranduil did business over his phone. Bard could have opted out at any moment if he’d gotten too uncomfortable; that was what the safeword was for, after all, but he’d endured it. Stoically at first, but he’d almost collapsed against Thranduil by the end of the afternoon. Eventually his tongue had loosened to the point that he could finally tell Thranduil what was wrong, and it had been good for both of them.

Bard leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Thranduil’s thigh. Thranduil petted his hair, short and stylishly cut now after years of rough neglect, and waited for the tension to go out of Bard’s neck. Eventually it did, and he finally spoke.

“I don’t think you should leave me alone with the children.”

Thranduil kept stroking him, soothing. “Why not?”

“Because if something were to happen, I might not be able to stop it by myself. What if…I couldn’t before, you know, I couldn’t—they spent years in that hellhole, and…”

“You kept them alive.”

Bard laughed bitterly. “I kept them in prison. Because I wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to escape from the Master.”

Oh lord, _that_. If Thranduil could go back and kill the former leader of Laketown’s brutal mafia again, he’d do so in a heartbeat, because the bastard had died too quickly the first time. “You were a prisoner as well. You did what you had to do to save them.” Bard had done more to keep his children alive than anyone should have been asked. He’d become an assassin, all his hard-fought skills brought to bear for the sake of a man who only ruled through fear, who let Bard see his children once a month to prove they were still alive, but no more than that. Bard had been a tool, an ill-kempt attack dog brought warily to bay at the hand of a terribly cruel owner. He still bore reminders of his recalcitrance in the form of scars all across his body, and the occasional nightmares over his children that left him trembling and unable to speak.

At least he was still speaking now, even if what he had to say was far from encouraging. “I failed them. I can’t…I shouldn’t be alone with them, because they can’t rely on me.”

“They can,” Thranduil insisted. “They love you, they know how much you went through for their sakes. Your children worship you, you know that. They’ll be happy to see you with or without me.”

“Thranduil, _please_.”

For every two steps forward they took, there was always one back. Thranduil sighed, and felt Bard stiffen in response. “I’m not upset at you,” Thranduil clarified quickly. “Just upset that you still have so little faith in yourself as a father.”

“I’m a killer. I barely remember how to be a real father.”

“Bard.” Thranduil lifted his face up and kissed him gently. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met, and a wonderful father. Also an exceptional killer, yes, but that isn’t all you are, or all you’ll ever be.”

“Please,” Bard repeated.

“Fine.” Thranduil considered the situation. “I’ll ask Legolas to pick them up, along with Tauriel, and take them to the country house.”

“He’s just in from Nepal, you’re sure he won’t mind going to get them?”

Thranduil smiled wryly. “Don’t delude yourself; he’s come home to visit them, not me. I’m his boring old ada, while your children are the siblings he always wanted. He adores them.”

Bard smiled back, finally. “The feeling is mutual, I think. Bain’s talked of nothing else over the phone all week.”

“It’s done, then. Legolas and Tauriel will pick the children up from Rivendell Academy,” which was the boarding school they attended during the week, “and you can explain to Tauriel why she’s being relegated to babysitting duty.”

“Because Feren is hopeless at it,” Bard replied, the storm clouds in his expression clearing at last.

“Very true. Now, stand up.” Bard complied, and helped Thranduil to his feet without the other having to ask. Sitting for a prolonged period was sometimes painful, but with help Thranduil could manage. “I have work to do in the study, and you need to call the children before they go to sleep and let them know about the change in plans. Once you’re done, go and pick two things out of the chest that you want to use tonight and bring them to me.”

Bard’s smile was almost beatific. For all that the Master had abused him horribly, the man had been too late to ruin Bard completely. Bard had learned acceptance of his predilections before being forced to betray them thanks to the loving guidance of his wife, Amelia. Thranduil offered up a little prayer for the poor woman, the victim of a hit and run a year after Tilda had been born, on a daily basis. Bard left, and Thranduil went to review the terms of the prospective deal with the Durins.

Oh, the terms…honestly, it was just as well that Legolas and Gimli had scandalized everyone and run off together after that business with Smaug three years ago. Legolas had had no desire to be involved in the family business after that, and reading through Thorin’s list of unreasonable demands and exorbitant percentages, Thranduil commiserated with his son. Speaking of Legolas...Thranduil reached for his phone.

His son picked up on the second ring. “Ada!”

Thranduil smiled. As much as he and Legolas had disagreed over the years, sometimes very loudly ( _ear-splittingly_ , according to Tauriel), nothing quite lifted Thranduil’s spirits like speaking to him. “You must be in a pub,” Thranduil teased. “Otherwise I wouldn’t merit such enthusiasm.”

“What are you talking about? I’m always like this!”

“ _Three sheets to the wind’s what you are, laddie,_ ” Thranduil heard Gimli say, and he managed to keep his teeth-grinding to an absolute minimum. Thranduil might not care overmuch for the person Legolas had chosen, but he cared for his son, and that meant swallowing his reflexive dislike of Gimli Gloinson (a _Durin_ , for the love of the Valar) and understanding that if he wanted to keep a functional relationship with Legolas, he had to be polite. And Thranduil was. Very, very carefully polite.

“Shut up, I’m more sober than you are,” Legolas groused, but a moment later the noise cleared—he must have moved outside. “What’s up? Are we still meeting you two and the Bardlings at the halls tomorrow evening?” Legolas always called them _the Bardlings_ , and the children loved it.

“Actually, there’s been a slight change of plans. If you and Gimli,” better to include him up front, because Legolas would bring him either way, “could come to the townhouse tomorrow morning to rendezvous with Tauriel, I’d like if you could pick up the children from the Academy. I have a meeting with the Durins that Bard insists on accompanying me to, but I don’t want to leave them waiting until after we’re finished. They’re looking forward to seeing you so much anyway…” He trailed off temptingly, and Legolas laughed.

“You don’t have to twist my arm to convince me, Ada. What time do you want us there?”

“Ten o’ clock should be fine.”

“And have you told Tauriel yet that she’s going to miss a chance to show off in front of her boyfriend?”

If there was one relationship even more inconceivable to Thranduil than Legolas and Gimli, it was his guard Tauriel’s with Thorin’s own nephew, Kili. Not that Kili didn’t have his good points, for a Durin, but…

“Not yet.”

“Ah. Have fun with that. Will I get a moment with you before we leave?”

“Possibly.” Thranduil wasn’t sure what the morning would hold yet for himself and Bard. The meeting wasn’t until noon. “We’ll see.”

“All right, be cryptic.” Legolas hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Will this meeting be dangerous?”

“Only if I can’t keep myself from doing the world a favor and cutting off Thorin’s head.”

“I thought you were getting along better, since the…Smaug thing.”

“We were. We are,” Thranduil amended. “We’re not actively at war, so that’s a decided improvement. I attribute it entirely to Bilbo and Bard.”

“Bard’s taking good care of you, isn’t he?” The words were heavy with everything Legolas left unspoken: that it wasn’t him who was taking care of his father now, as he had ever since the first arson attack ten years ago. Their family unit had been brutally cut from three to two, and it had been the pair of them, stalwart together through sickness and health, for years before Legolas finally left. Thranduil didn’t blame his son for going, but at times like this he heard how Legolas might blame himself.

“The best of care.” Thranduil glanced toward the door, which gave him a nice view of Bard on the phone, smiling in response to something one of his children was saying. “I’m fine.”

“Good, I’m glad. We’ll be there tomorrow, ada.”

“Sleep well, ionneg.”

Legolas hung up, and Thranduil felt his heart sink a little bit. It was easier to say goodbye when he knew he was going to see Legolas so soon, but still never felt good. He’d barely had time to put his own phone down before Bard was handing him another one, though.

“Tilda has to talk to you,” he said with a good-natured eye roll before leaving the room. Thranduil lifted the phone up.

“Darling?”

“ADA!”

Thranduil shrank a little from the speaker. “Just a bit quieter, darling.”

“ _Sorry_.” The apology was whispered, but then her voice came back at a more normal volume. “Ada, don’t let Da forget that he has to fill out the questionnaire for my class! He promised me he would but he’s forgotten the past _two_ weekends, and it’s due on Monday!”

“I’ll remind him,” Thranduil promised. “What’s it about?”

Tilda giggled. “It’s about _you_ , ada! It’s about how you two met and when you knew you liked each other and why you like each other now.”

Thranduil blinked. “Why on earth is this even an assignment?”

“Because we have to do a report for class about our families, and I already know everything about Sigrid and Bain, and Da talked to me about Ma last weekend, but I want to know about you too, so Lindir helped me write this questionnaire! Lindir is my _favorite_ teacher.”

Lindir was a little shit, and Thranduil would definitely be letting Elrond know that. “I’ll make sure it gets done, darling.”

“Thank you, ada.” There was some whispering, and then, “Okay, I have to go to bed now. I already told Da I love him but tell him again for me.”

“I will.”

“Okay, I love you, bye!” Tilda hung up, and left Thranduil staring at the phone feeling a bit like a hurricane had just swept through his head. He loved Bard’s children, considered them almost his own, but Legolas as a child had been rather more subdued, probably as a result of losing Lori so young. Rather like Sigrid, who was old enough to have vivid memories of her mother and clever enough to have discerned a lot about her father’s absences through the years. Tilda though, and to a lesser extent Bain, were entirely too energetic.

Bard came back in, and Thranduil said, “Tilda wants me to remind you that…” His voice trailed off as he gave himself over to appreciating the view. Bard was completely nude, not something that Thranduil had asked for yet, but he certainly wasn’t bothered by it either. In one hand Bard held a folded length of quarter-inch blue cotton rope, in the other hand a blindfold. Bondage, then.

Thranduil wasn’t surprised. Bard always enjoyed the feeling of being bound, especially when he was feeling insecure. Once he’d warmed up to the idea, it became something he asked for often, and Thranduil enjoyed the beauty of the ropes against Bard’s tawny skin, the gorgeous symmetry of the knots and loops and the faint red lines they left behind when he untied Bard. He’d studied up on shibari, and since then they’d played with the ropes on a regular basis.

The blindfold was more subtle, a plea for direction, for the certainty that came from Thranduil’s guiding hand. Bard trusted Thranduil not to hurt him, or use him without respect the way the Master had. It was humbling every time, being handed the blindfold. Thranduil rarely refused Bard’s choices, and tonight would be no different.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” The calm confidence in Bard’s voice warmed Thranduil, and he pushed to his feet.

“Fine. But we do this in the bedroom. I doubt I’ll be good for much afterward.”

A line of worry instantly formed between Bard’s eyes. “Do you feel all right? Do you want a pain pill?”

“I’m well enough. I’ll take a pill afterward, it’ll knock me right out.”

“Thranduil…”

“Trust me to know myself, Bard.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Fine. But if _you_ need to stop, promise you will.”

“Of course.” Thranduil let his lover help him back to their bedroom, hating his own slowness, the way the ache turned into a burn as the day progressed. Copious surgery and reconstructions had repaired most of the damage from the fire, but Thranduil’s left side was considerably weaker than his right, the hand and arm damaged enough that he still wore long-sleeved shirts and a glove whenever he went out, just to avoid the stares. Thank the Valar the doctors had been able to cover up most of the ruin that had been made of his face. The skin was stiff and the sensation wasn’t complete, but it looked normal enough, which allowed him to avoid the worst of people’s scrutiny. Thranduil despised pity.

Their bedroom was warmly sumptuous, with carpet the color of sunlight on fallen leaves and walls the same shade of red as a Painted Lady’s wings. The bedspread was a rich forest green, with a mirror set in the wall opposite. Vanity had been a favorite vice of Thranduil’s before the fire, but it was one he’d set aside until Bard came into his life. Beautiful, responsive Bard, who flushed so readily, who lost himself so completely. Thranduil liked to look at Bard, and he liked to make Bard look at himself.

“Here.” He indicated a spot in front of the bed. “Stand.” Bard settled in, and Thranduil unwrapped the rope after making sure the safety shears were nearby. The rope was ice blue, the same shade as his eyes, and one of Bard’s favorites. Thranduil found the bight and held it in the center of Bard’s back, looped the cotton line once around his torso to provide a foundation, then got down to business. He wrapped up over Bard’s shoulders and across the base of his neck, testing to make sure it wasn’t too tight before continuing. He had Bard cross his wrists behind his back as he wound more rope around the top of his biceps, making a thick, intricate knot that connected the two arms before looping it lower. He bound Bard’s wrists thickly, halfway up to his forearms, before he finally tied off the last knot.

Bard breathed through it all, hazel eyes glazed over with pleasure at each fresh touch of the rope. It was a fairly simple design, but strong. He couldn’t struggle and escape. He couldn’t fight or flee. All he could do was stand where Thranduil put him, and do what Thranduil bid him. He looked drunk, and absolutely gorgeous.

“Good?” Thranduil asked, nuzzling at Bard’s temple.

“Ssso good,” Bard replied dazedly.

“Lovely. Now kneel.” Bard got down onto the floor, right in front of the edge of the bed. Thranduil kissed Bard’s forehead, then fastened the blindfold securely over his eyes. It cut off all light, eliminated his depth perception and Bard swayed on his knees, momentarily overwhelmed. Thranduil slid two long fingers beneath the stretch of rope across the top of Bard’s chest and steadied him. “Give me a color.”

“Green.”

“Good, darling.” Thranduil slowly tugged off the leather glove that covered his left hand, then cupped Bard’s face with his bare, gnarled fingers. “You’re so lovely. I’m fortunate to have you here with me.” He kissed Bard’s lips gently. “Your children are fortunate to have you as a father. Try to believe me,” he added when Bard frowned. “Just try. There’s no need to speak right now. In fact, I can think of something better to do with your mouth.”

“Yes, _please_.”

“Very good.” Sometimes Thranduil made Bard work to get him out without using his hands, but tonight he was too impatient. He pulled his pants down just enough to bare himself, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here then.”

Bard almost fell forward with his eagerness, sliding Thranduil’s knees further apart as he pressed in with his shoulders. Thranduil checked the knots along his back, then abruptly had no thought to check anything at all, because Bard’s mouth found the head of his cock. Bard was as uninterested in teasing tonight as Thranduil.

“Oh, hell…” Thranduil rested his weight back on his right hand and slid the left up into Bard’s hair, where the strands were just long enough to get a decent grip. He didn’t pull, didn’t force; he didn’t have to. Bard took him deep, until Thranduil could feel the fluttering at the back of his lover’s throat. “Gently,” he murmured. “Gently, darling. Slow down a bit.” Bard eased back but didn’t stop, sucking lightly as he laved Thranduil’s cock with his tongue. “Perfect.” Thranduil had to fight to keep his eyes open, it felt so good, but the lines of pale blue that wound over Bard’s back were too perfect to look away from, proof of his submission, of his request. He _wanted_ this, and Thranduil was more than happy to give it to him.

Fuck, he wouldn’t last long tonight, not the way he felt now. Bard was hungry and trusting between his legs, splaying Thranduil open as Bard fought for balance and to move, move, the rhythm of his mouth as potent and vital as a heartbeat. Thranduil felt his breathing speed up, his body tense in preparation.

“Darling, I’m going to…” Bard moaned needily before Thranduil could finish, and that was good enough for him. He finally let his eyes float shut as he came, the surge of pleasure bringing a sweet rush of endorphins that swept away, however briefly, the pain of his body. Thranduil felt weak when it was finally over, breathless and wrung out, but he still had Bard to take care of.

“Hmm…” His voice was husky, almost rough; Thranduil cleared his throat. “Enough, darling. You have to stand up now, I need to untie you.”

“No, I like it,” Bard protested once he stopped caressing Thranduil’s softening cock with his tongue.

“I do too, but I want to see you without it when you come for me. Nothing but your skin, and the marks I’ve made on it. Come on now.” Thranduil brushed his fingers across the front of the blindfold, where Bard’s eyelashes quivered beneath the thin cloth. “I’m going to take this off as well, but leave your eyes closed for now.”

Bard nodded. Thranduil undid the blindfold and set it aside, then leaned down and kissed Bard’s closed, damp eyes. “Stand up,” he said, and this time Bard obeyed without complaint. Thranduil took a deep breath, then levered himself to his feet again, feeling the ache start up immediately. He still had some time, though. “Turn, darling.” Bard presented his back and Thranduil set about unwrapping him.

The marks left from the rope weren’t very dark; he hadn’t been tied for more than ten or fifteen minutes, but they were still beautiful against Bard’s skin. Thranduil raised his lover’s wrists to his face and scraped over the sensitive skin with his teeth, thrilling at how Bard’s breath caught. “Gorgeous,” he whispered. “Come here.” He moved both of them over to stand by the mirror, Bard in front, then wrapped one long arm around Bard’s chest and slid the other down until he finally touched Bard’s red, weeping cock.

Bard reacted like he’d been shot, the noise of desperation punched straight out of him, and Thranduil took him in hand and stroked more firmly. He ground his diminished erection forward against Bard’s ass, enjoying the feel of ownership it gave him. Bard wanted to be used, and Thranduil wanted to fulfil his lover’s desires. “Tomorrow,” he murmured in Bard’s ear, looking into the mirror to see how Bard reacted, “after the meeting with the Durins, I’ll probably have a great deal of angry energy to work off. We’ll have from when we leave the restaurant to when we arrive at Mirkwood to take care of things. I think the back of the town car is spacious enough for you to fuck me until I scream, don’t you darling?”

He thrust again, stroked Bard’s length harder and watched a rosy blush spread over Bard’s chest and down his abdomen. “You’d give it to me exactly how I wanted it, hard and ruthless, and once you came inside of me I’d make you pull out, get down on your knees and suck me off again. I love your mouth, you’re so eager, and you swallow so well.”

“Thranduil, please,” Bard begged, and that was it.

“Open your eyes, darling,” Thranduil said, and he watched the flood of realizations hit his lover one right after the other: the red lines along his arms and the top of his chest, his flush and heavy breathing, Thranduil still so put together as Bard stood naked, bared to scrutiny, vulnerable and Thranduil _wanted_ him like that, loved him like that—

Bard came with a groan, coating the base of the mirror and Thranduil’s hand with his release while Thranduil eased him through it, pressing kisses to the back of his jaw and down his neck. “Darling,” Thranduil said again, and finally Bard smiled.

“Love,” he said, turned his head and kissed Thranduil back. As his languor cleared Bard seemed to become aware of their position, and his ease went away in a rush. “Fuck, this has to be killing you.”

“It’s far from unbearable.”

“Still.” He turned in Thranduil’s grip and helped to ease him back onto the bed. Thranduil wasn’t too proud to let him, either. Bard undressed him efficiently, then said, “Stay here. I’ll bring you a pill and some water.”

“I need a shower,” Thranduil protested muzzily. “ _You_ need a shower.”

“We can have one in the morning, right now you need to rest.” Thranduil was vaguely aware of the rope being coiled up, the blindfold put away, and he felt bad for leaving all the cleanup to Bard, but at the same time…his lover was right. The pain was quite insistent now, and it was all he could do to keep the evidence of it off his face when Bard came back bearing gifts.

“Here.” He helped lift Thranduil’s head so he could swallow the pill and some water, then dimmed the lights and pulled the covers over both of them. “I set the alarm for eight. It should leave us plenty of time.”

“Mmm.” Thranduil pulled on Bard’s wrist until he lay close enough to feel. Thranduil couldn’t take pressure on a night like tonight, but he liked the intimacy and the warmth. “Love you.”

The last thing he felt before falling asleep was Bard’s lips on his cheek. “I love you too.”

 

 


	2. Meetings And Felicitations

 

“How did you two meet?”

“You brought it along?” Bard groaned and tilted his head back against the leather seat of Thranduil’s Audi Q-5, a compact but luxurious little SUV that Feren had turned into his pet project over the last few months. One of his upgrades had been a privacy shield between the front of the car and the back, so that he “won’t have to listen to you two fucking back there.” To which Bard had blushed and Thranduil had smirked.

“I promised Tilda I’d remind you about it,” Thranduil said calmly, an elegant silver pen gripped in his right hand. His left sat motionless on his lap. It had still been bothering him this morning when they got up, but with the meeting to attend Thranduil hadn’t felt comfortable taking a pain pill on the off chance he was still drowsy at noon. Thorin Durinson wasn’t the cleverest negotiator but he was aggressive, and he’d gotten much better at the detail work ever since he married Bilbo.

All of which meant that Thranduil wasn’t moving his left hand, or his left side, and if working on Tilda’s questionnaire occupied his mind Bard would go along with it, but… “Consider me reminded,” Bard grumbled.

“Why do you dislike the idea of answering a few questions so much?”

Bard sighed. He loved Thranduil, he truly did, but for all the man’s mental acumen sometimes he could be quite dense. “I remember when we first met. It was the same day Smaug tried to set us all on fire during the Master’s pitiful attempt at brokering a peace deal. The first time you ever laid eyes on me I was on my knees, filthy, wearing a dog collar and a chain.” Bard still felt the weight of that collar sometimes, the roughness of the leather, the way it chafed his tender skin. He’d had to wear it all the time, even when he slept. It had been impossible to get more than an hour or two’s rest before the pain of it digging into a nerve or cutting off blood flow would wake him. He remembered covering the collar with a scarf every time he saw the children, and the smug look in Alfrid’s eyes, the twitchiness of his fingers when he stared at Bard’s neck. Alfrid hadn’t exposed Bard’s shame to his children, but he’d wanted to.

“It isn’t exactly a happy memory for me,” Bard finished.

“Of the many things I remember from that day,” Thranduil began, his voice solemn, “that particular image is nowhere to be found. Rather, I remember how you were the first one to leap into action when the walls began to crawl with flame. I remember how you snatched up the Master’s gun and shot Smaug straight through the eye as he went to make his escape. I remember,” and now his tone softened, “the man whose first thought as we all fled to the exit was for his family, and whether or not there would be retribution against them since the Master hadn’t escaped the confrontation with his life. I remember an honorable, quick-witted, fast-fingered man with deadly aim and a loving heart. So forgive me if I think of our first meeting rather more fondly than you do.

“Although,” Thranduil added, “technically it wasn’t the first time I had seen you, merely the first time we spoke. I watched you compete at the Olympics twelve years earlier. I saw you win the silver medal, and I saw you help your pregnant wife up onto the platform to stand beside you as soon as the ceremony was done, so that she could share in the excitement. The first time I ever saw you, Bard, was probably one of the happiest days of your life. I’ve never forgotten it.” He looked back down at the paper. “But for expediency’s sake I’ll write down that we met at a business meeting.”

Bard stared at his lover, utterly stunned. Thranduil had seen him compete? “Why were you even there?”

“For Legolas’ birthday. He was very young then, but already quite enamored of archery. We made a family vacation of it, and he was thrilled to see you do so well.” Thranduil smiled. “He named his next bow ‘Blackie,’ after yours.”

“Why hasn’t _he_ ever mentioned this to me?”

“I’m not even sure he remembers. He was only six.” Thranduil looked back at the questionnaire. “What was the first thing you noticed about each other?” he recited. “Oh Lindir, honestly. He has no sense of subtle—”

Bard didn’t give Thranduil time to finish the sentence. He was out of his seat and pressed tight to Thranduil’s right side a moment later, turning his lover’s lips into a desperate kiss. God, Bard wished he could climb _inside_ of Thranduil right now, that he could nestle deep into his soul and curl up and stay. What had he done to deserve this person? How could he ever repay Thranduil for inexplicably falling in love with him, for sending the children to the realm’s best private academy, for giving Bard a purpose and hope and easing the cares of his heart?

“I noticed your eyes first,” Bard gasped when he finally pulled back. “Your beautiful eyes, fierce like a hawk’s. I felt pinned to the floor when you finally met my gaze, and for the first time in years it felt like where I _belonged_. If you had snapped your fingers then I would have crawled to you, the Master be damned.”

“Bard…” Thranduil used those eyes on him now, but instead of becoming shy Bard reveled in the heat he saw there. “And I noticed your hands,” Thranduil murmured, “and thought about how dearly I would love to feel them on my bare skin. But these are not appropriate answers for an eight year old’s questionnaire, and I don’t have time to take you properly right now, you minx.”

“ _Your_ minx,” Bard said, but he sat back down in his seat. “Feren is probably red to the tips of his ears. The glass is good for stopping sound, but it’s still transparent.”

“Leaving it see-through is a safety measure Feren wouldn’t compromise on, and he knows how to be discreet,” Thranduil replied. “Unlike you. For the Valar’s sake, we’ll be at The Shire in five minutes and I’m…” He looked down at his tented slacks, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Once this weekend with the children is over, you’ll be crawling every night for me for days,” he promised. Bard swallowed hard.

He could handle that.

The Shire was a restaurant in downtown Erebor, opened a few years back when Bilbo came to live with Thorin. Bilbo Durinson, formerly Baggins, absolutely refused to sit around all day doing nothing, even though the Durins were wealthy enough to make it an option. Instead he opened his restaurant, and in less than a year it became one of the most popular eateries in town. It was also considered sacrosanct by the Durins, and never involved in any of Thorin’s shadier business, but in this case Bilbo had offered it up for the meeting without pause. Probably because he knew that if he didn’t, the meeting wouldn’t happen. Thranduil refused to enter the Mountain, the Durins’ family compound, and likewise Thorin would have nothing to do with either of Thranduil’s homes.

“Stubborn gits, the both of them,” Bilbo had grumbled the last time Bard brought the children to The Shire for Sunday brunch. “They’re too proud and too accustomed to having their own ways. I’ve never had much use for pride myself. I mean,” he’d glanced around the dining room, with its warm golden wood and homely, comfortable atmosphere, “it’s not that I don’t take pride in my own work. But would I let that pride prevent me from making rational decisions? I like to think not.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t,” Bard had agreed. “You’ve always struck me as quite practical, Mr. Durinson.”

“Oh no, call me Bilbo,” he’d insisted. “After all, if _we_ can’t be friends I don’t know how any progress will ever be made.” And then he’d brought them all thick, sweet slices of honey cake, on the house.

Bilbo’s best intentions aside, that didn’t mean Bard was going to drop his guard when it came to Thranduil’s safety. He exited the car first, eyes scanning the surroundings, including the two surly guards standing by the side entrance of the restaurant. He eased his hand away from his gun and moved aside for Thranduil, who got out gracefully.

“Feren, if you’d stay with the car,” he said, and Feren nodded.

“In ye get,” one of the guards—Dwalin, Bard thought—grunted, waving them forward.

“I see good manners are as limited amongst Thorin Durinson’s company as ever,” Thranduil remarked to no one in particular as he walked to the door. Bard entered first, and didn’t miss Dwalin’s eye roll.

Well, this was all off to a fantastic start.

They walked down the narrow hallway that normally provided an extra route for waiters to go back and forth to the kitchen, but right now was completely empty. At the end of the hall was a small room that Bilbo had built for private parties, its door currently closed. Dwalin knocked three times in rapid succession, the door flew open and then—

“Bard!” Bilbo cried happily. “You made it after all! I thought it would be Tauriel coming along.”

“He’s making her go with _Legolas_ today,” a voice said aggrievedly from inside the room. “After I haven’t seen her all week!”

“Oh, don’t fuss so, Kili, it’s childish,” Bilbo chided him. “Come in, come in! Welcome, Thranduil, it’s nice to see you.”

The thing about Bilbo was, when he delivered a pleasantry it was more than just rote. He spoke with perfect conviction, like it actually was very nice for him to see them, and Bard hid a smile when he saw Thranduil’s shoulders relax a bit.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said as he entered the room. A table had been set up in the center of the little space, laden with a truly alarming and delicious-smelling amount of food. Thorin and his nephews, Fili and Kili, stood on the far side, along with his advisor Balin. Thorin opened his mouth, but Bilbo cut him off.

“Now, where is Feren? You didn’t leave him outside, did you?”

“He won’t be parted from that car of his,” Bard said.

“What nonsense! I’ll have to send him out some food. Bofur,” Bilbo turned to the other guard, who looked highly amused by everything happening, “put a plate together and take it out to Feren, won’t you? Make sure you include one of the eclairs, I know he likes them. Make it two, actually.”

“How do you know that?” Thorin demanded.

“Because he comes here every Tuesday morning to get them when they’re fresh, and you—” Bilbo swiveled to look at Thranduil again, “really ought to give that man more time off. Honestly, one day a week? I’d send him a box of them if I thought they’d get through your home security, but I know better than to try.”

Bofur left with a plate, and Thorin finally got a word in edgewise. “Welcome, Thranduil Oropherion,” he said formally. “Please sit.”

“Ah, _there_ is that vaunted Ereborian politesse,” Thranduil replied lightly. “My thanks.” Bard pulled a chair out for him and he sat, then gestured for Bard to do the same. Once Bilbo ensured that no one was going to starve, the meeting commenced.

Or rather, the first volley was fired. Bard listened with half an ear; they always started the same, these meetings, with a long and acrid recitation of the ills that each side had ever perpetrated against the other. After a while, his attention was distracted by Bilbo quietly passing him a pad of paper and a pen. The top sheet read, _Bit tiresome, this part, hmm?_

_Always_ , Bard wrote back. Bilbo ‘hmm’ed and replied.

_And how are the kids? You know Frodo is in Tilda’s class, right? He told me they’re raising tadpoles this week._

Ah, yes. Bard had almost forgotten about Frodo Baggins, Bilbo’s nephew. He and Bilbo were a package deal, and from all accounts the Durins all adored the little boy. He and Tilda were good friends at Rivendell.

_All well, thank you,_ Bard wrote. _Did Frodo make you fill out a questionnaire about you and Thorin?_

“Mmpgh!” Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth as he restrained a laugh, and everyone in the room looked at him. He cleared his throat. “Never mind me, carry on,” he said airily, then bent his hand to writing again.

“Are you passing _notes_?” Thorin asked incredulously.

“You’re talking about tariffs that haven’t been in place for fifteen years, my love,” Bilbo said distractedly. “Please forgive me if I occupy my time with something else.” And, astonishingly, Thorin subsided and went back to glaring at Thranduil. Bilbo’s ways with his husband were a genuine marvel.

Eventually Bard received this: _Oh my yes! About how we met, when we fell in love, all those things. It was very sweet. Thorin hated it, naturally. He went on and on about our private life being PRIVATE, and I told him that if he didn’t cooperate with me I would just make things up on the spot, and how would he like for our first meeting to be toppling into a duck pond or arguing at the DMV, hmm? And then he let me have my way, naturally. I daresay it’s easier between the two of you._

_After a fashion_ , Bard replied. _I think I’m the more reluctant one in our case, but I’m not as stubborn as some._

_You can just say “all of the Durins” and I won’t be offended, you know. I_ DO _live with them._

_You’re a brave and patient man, Bilbo._

_Well, it does come with some compensations_ _J_

Eventually the conversation moved on to the subject at hand: the loss of product. The Durins were gem merchants who undercut the competition by shifting some of their product on the black market. Thranduil was an international businessman who facilitated those transactions, but— “Once the packages have passed out of my factors hands, they’re no longer my concern,” he said. “Yet it seems I _must_ concern myself if I want to ensure the safety of my own people handling your wares. You’ve lost, what, five packages in the past three months? Yet you don’t find this to be cause for alarm?”

“As you yourself said, it’s none of your business.”

“But you know what’s happening to them?”

“We know, and we’re dealing with it.”

“Your assurance is insufficient,” Thranduil said coldly. “If my people are at increased risk, I need to know why so that I can take steps to ensure their safety. I care deeply for my workers’ welfare, which doesn’t seem to be a sentiment that you share.”

“These aren’t just _workers_ , they’re family!” Kili burst out. “How dare you accuse us of callousness toward our own kin?”

“What alternative do I have, when I’m offered no explanation for their loss?”

“No one has been lost,” Balin broke in, staring warningly at Kili. “It’s been but a few skirmishes, nothing major.”

“Skirmishes with whom?”

There was utter silence. Thorin and Thranduil stared at each other for a long moment before Thranduil pushed his chair back. “If you cannot be honest with me, this partnership is over. Find another means of transportation for your goods.”

“We can, you know,” Fili spoke up. “You aren’t indispensable.”

“Nor are we expendable,” Bard finally spoke up. It wasn’t really his place, but Thranduil didn’t seem to mind. “Nor should any of us be. We are neighbors, we are allies; our children go to school together. The last thing I want is for my youngest daughter to come home crying because her friend Frodo has suffered a terrible loss.” It was perhaps a low blow, bringing the children into it, but they were the only common ground they all had apart from Legolas and Gimli, who were an even sorer subject with the Durins than they were with Thranduil. “Do all our similarities count for nothing in the face of a few differences?”

More silence, and then… “Thorin,” Bilbo said with a sigh. “Please.” Again, marvelously, it worked.

“Fine.” Thorin folded his hands on the table, his mien serious. “We’re facing encroachments on our territory by the Orc cartel. Azog the Defiler and his son Bolg, specifically.” That was surprising. The last Bard knew, those two had been in federal prison. “There haven’t been any casualties yet, but they’re trying all sorts of tricks. Collapsed bridges that force our couriers to reroute through dangerous territory, drive-by ambushes on our cars, that sort of thing. They haven’t launched any attacks on the Mountain, and I doubt they have the strength for that, but they are harrying us.”

“And what is your solution?” Thranduil asked.

“Increased protection for our shipments. Increased patrols in our territory. We stay vigilant, I assure you.”

“And did you honestly believe that this information had no bearing on my own affairs?” Bard heard the undercurrent of anger in Thranduil’s voice, and prayed that his lover would maintain his composure.

“Would you have listened to me without concrete proof?” Thorin riposted. “I have nothing to show you but bullet holes in car doors, flesh wounds and concussions that could have come from anything. There is no record of Azog and Bolg’s release from prison—someone has covered their tracks very carefully. That means they have an ally in a position of great authority, and until I know who that is, all I can give you is conjecture.”

Thranduil nodded slowly. “In this case I think your conjecture is better than nothing, but I understand your concerns. I’ll take steps to safeguard my people, and do my own looking into the matter of Azog’s sponsor.”

“Carefully,” Balin cautioned.

“Of course.”

The meeting concluded on a much better, if more somber, note than it had begun. Thranduil and Thorin actually shook hands, and Bilbo pressed a wrapped plate of cherry rhubarb tarts onto Bard. “For the kids,” he said. “Frodo tells me these are Tilda’s favorites.”

“You’re too good to us, Bilbo,” Bard said with a smile.

“Oh, not at all. Not at all. There’s little enough for me to do to help, in such dark times,” Bilbo said, his hazel eyes distant and sad. “I’m no warrior, nor a tactician of any note. All I can do is try and provide what little comfort I can, whenever I can.”

“Which makes you worth more than a thousand warriors,” Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo smiled so sweetly for his husband that Bard had to look away. It felt too private to watch. He took the tarts, and a mozzarella pesto ciabatta sandwich for Tauriel, and more eclairs for Feren, and by the time they made it back out to the car Thranduil had to get the door for himself, because Bard’s arms were full of treats.

He stowed them under a seat, then got in next to Thranduil. “Bilbo’s good for Thorin,” Bard said with a grin as they began to drive away.

“I think Bilbo might be good for us all,” Thranduil replied thoughtfully.

 


	3. Faster Than A Speeding Bullet

 

It was about an hour’s drive from The Shire to Mirkwood if they stuck to the speed limits, which they did after Thranduil and Feren had had a talk about tickets and license points and how driving was a _privilege_ , thank you very much. In many ways Feren was the perfect bodyguard: he was loyal, punctual, skillful and deadly. He was also only a few years older than Legolas and spent almost all of his free time working on custom cars and drag racing. A mature demeanor could only compensate so much for the youth beneath it, which was rather obvious today, since Feren’s mouth was still edged with chocolate from one of Bilbo’s eclairs.

“Legolas has been texting,” Feren said as he turned onto Celduin Avenue, the most direct route home from the city. “He wants you to call when we’re fifteen minutes away so he can have the staff start preparing things for tea.”

“Didn’t take him long to readjust,” Bard commented. “From caving and climbing mountains to organizing afternoon tea in under a week.”

“Not that we’ll need it.” Thranduil appreciated Bilbo’s food, but even the vegetarian dishes tended to be on the heavy side.

“We’ll tell him not to bother with food, just something to drink,” Bard said. “I’ll throw some of Bilbo’s treats at the kids to keep them from complaining about it. Just wait, all of this stuff will be gone by tomorrow.”

“I’ve no doubt of it.” Especially not with Legolas, Gimli and Tauriel in the house with them. Gimli had never had the chance to get addicted to Bilbo’s food, but its rarity made him crave it all the more when it was around. And Bilbo’s weakness for catering to Tauriel’s tastes was well established. But speaking of the children… Thranduil picked up where he’d left off on the questionnaire. “What are the first things we noticed about each other? Are eyes and hands innocuous enough for an eight-year-old’s school project?”

“Probably not. Remember who’s going to be reading this.”

“ _Lindir_.” Blatant voyeurism, that’s what this was. “Well, we can come back to that one. The next question is: what are your favorite things about each other?” Thranduil pursed his lips. “Honestly, could this be more laden with innuendo?”

“You see?” Bard demanded. “You see why I was putting this off? How am I supposed to be honest about this when all I can think about is your—”

“And that’s my cue!” Feren interrupted them. He stabbed at a button on the console, and the glass rose to separate them. There was silence for a moment.

“Actually, I was going to say your wardrobe,” Bard said casually. “I’ve always had a thing for pretty people in sharp suits. My wife got a tailored suit for herself one year for my birthday. It was…” His lips quirked slightly. “Amazing.”

Thranduil shook his head in mock despair. “You only love me for my looks, I see it now.”

“Well, your money too, we can’t forget about that. I mean, rich and beautiful, what’s not to like?”

“Plus there’s the mansion.”

“Yep,” Bard agreed. “All the cars, too, those are nice. The chauffeuring, the cooking, the cleaning. The school for my kids. Putting up with answering a bunch of inane questions about our relationship. All big plusses, to my mind.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I’ll still have a hold on you when my beauty fades.” They grinned at each other.

“Seriously, though,” Bard said after a moment. “I don’t know that I could pick a single favorite thing, but I suppose the most child-friendly option would be…your generosity. Not just with the material stuff, but with everything. With your time and your energy and your affection. I know you wanted to help me after Smaug, but you didn’t _want_ me at first, did you?”

“It wouldn’t have been at all appropriate,” Thranduil said seriously. “You’d just emerged from a long and abusive relationship, for all that it wasn’t sexual between you and the Master. You had your children to worry about, and you were making yourself sick fretting about the future. You didn’t need passion, Bard, you needed _com_ passion. Until, eventually, you could handle both.” Thranduil shook his head a little. “Please don’t make me out to be a martyr in our relationship. If you think I’m generous with you, then what are you with me? Half the time you have to help me to bed, undress me, help me bathe. You’re young yet, to be bound to someone who is rendered useless by chronic pain on a regular basis.

“But I never think of your help as simply generous to me,” Thranduil continued, taking Bard’s left hand in his right. “Because I know that everything you do comes from a place of love, not a feeling of debt or ownership. And I _am_ generous to you, but it’s because I love you. Tell me you understand that.”

Bard’s eyes were closed, but his grip was tight. “I understand. And I do love you, greatly. ” He shrugged, a flash of helplessness in his expression. “But that doesn’t negate my appreciation for your generosity. I still…I feel your love like a net, sometimes, that you’ve cast over everything you care about. It stretches but it never breaks, and you tend to it every day. And I’m happy within it, but I still know how wonderful it is that I’ve been caught. Do you follow me?”

“That’s a rather possessive metaphor, but I do follow it.”

“Well, you’re a rather possessive person,” Bard said, and when he opened his eyes his expression was a bit lighter. “So. Generosity. Now you.”

“Your faith in me,” Thranduil said immediately. “How you trust me with every facet of yourself, even your darkest fears and deepest longings. How you reach for me even when you can’t see me, and know that I’m there. That’s my favorite thing about you.”

Bard sighed heavily. “Lord, look at us. Having all sorts of deep conversations thanks to Tilda’s sodding questionnaire.” He glanced down at the questionnaire. “Lindir…does he moonlight as a marriage counselor?”

“No, but he does have a Masters in Psychology, I believe,” Thranduil muttered. Meddling idiot. Lindir had been spending far too much time with the academy’s counselor, Gandalf. “There’s just one more question.”

“Right. Hit me.”

“If you could change one thing about each other, what would it be?”

Bard was already shaking his head. “No, I’m not even going there. This sort of thing is a black hole of ridiculousness—the question might as well ask if I’d like world peace.”

“What,” Thranduil said with a smile, “there’s nothing you’d like to change about me? Not a whole and healthy body, not a mind unburdened by Durins, not the way I steal the covers and warm my cold feet on your calves?”

“That last one, definitely,” Bard said, but then he continued. “Honestly though, no. I _wish_ for you to be whole and healthy, of course. Your happiness is important to me, of course I want that. But changing you has never even entered my mind. I love you just as you are. No change could make my feelings more or less.” He smiled and Thranduil wondered for a moment if it was possible for him to survive his heart melting into saccharine mush, because that was what it felt like.

“What about you?” Bard prompted. “What would you change?”

“Well, that’s a rather loaded question now.” Still, Thranduil would have answered it, but then Feren lowered the glass and said tersely, “We’re being followed.”

Bard was instantly alert. “How many?” he asked as he turned to look out the back window.

“Three black SUVs. One of them turned with us onto Celduin, the other two have just joined.”

“Any idea who’s in there?”

“No one friendly,” Feren replied. “No license plates, look. And if that’s the Durins, they would have let us know, wouldn’t they?”

“If it’s the Durins, they deserve whatever they get for this stunt,” Thranduil said coldly as he pulled out his phone. “I’ll call—”

“Head down!” Bard pressed his hand to Thranduil’s neck, forcing him into a forward bend. Their glass was bulletproof, but there were no guarantees. Bard cursed as three bullets impacted the back windshield. “Shit. Feren, odds of losing them?”

“We’re rural now, there aren’t many places to turn off and the roads are rough. If we get stopped or bogged down, we’ll be outnumbered in a firefight.”

“Then we need to take them out from a distance,” Bard said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, then pulled a rifle case out from under the seat. Already his demeanor had shifted into battle mode. “I’ll shoot from the side window, but I need you steady as can be.”

“I’ll do what I can, boss, but—” More shots peppered the car. “But too many of those and they’ll get lucky eventually,” Feren finished grimly.

“We can’t keep going this direction,” Thranduil said as he suddenly realized— “We’re leading them straight to the children.”

“We can’t turn around, boss, they’ll split and follow, and that’s if we get lucky and one of them doesn’t decide to take it for the team and ram us.” As if in response to his words, the closest of the SUVs suddenly pulled forward, coming dangerously close to their back bumper. Feren surged ahead, but Bard, who’d just finished putting his Fusion rifle together, said, “No, close again.” He looked at Thranduil. “Call the house, put them on alert.” Then he rolled down the window on his side, sighted as best he could before exposing his head, leaned out and sent a burst of shots straight into the driver’s side of the front windshield.

The glass held, but the attack was enough of a shock to the driver that the SUV began to weave dangerously. The cars behind it slowed way down as the driver overcorrected, then drove off the side of the road and rolled into a ditch, where it pinwheeled a few more times before finally crashing to a halt.

“Nice!” Feren called back.

“Element of surprise. It won’t happen twice.” More bullets hit the car, this time fired from well back, and Thranduil couldn’t help a flinch.

“Love.” Bard touched his cheek, focusing him. “Call the house, then call the Durins. It’ll be all right. We’ve got this.”

Right, the house. Thranduil found Legolas’ icon and hit it, surprised his fingers seemed so steady when he felt so breathless from adrenaline and the pain of his position. Holding a bend like this was hell on his side, but Bard would be mad if he straightened up.

“Ada!” Legolas said cheerfully when he picked up. “Are you close? We’re—”

“Legolas, tell Tauriel to enact alpha level security protocols. Get the children to the panic room and stay with them there,” Thranduil said quickly.

“What’s going on?” His son’s voice had gone flat. “Did something happen at the meeting?”

“Not at the meeting, after it. We were followed from The Shire, and we’re on the Celduin now with two vehicles in pursuit. A third went off the road a mile back.”

There was muffled conversation for a moment, then— “Tauriel is dealing with house security and staff, Gimli is rounding up the Bardlings. What else can I do?”

“Call the police, tell them what’s going on.” Thranduil disliked the idea of involving the authorities in anything personal, but this wasn’t just about his own safety. “Get some of them to the house, or at least on the road.”

“But no barricades!” Feren shouted. “We’re—shit, hang on.” One of the drivers had decided to go bold again, and was closing the distance fast to get level with them on the left.

“Shit,” Bard hissed. He crossed to the other side of the car. “You stay down,” he told Thranduil, then opened the window just a crack and fired at the SUV. It wavered but stayed nearly level with them. “Feren, move up, move!” Before they could accelerate, a fusillade of bullets hammered into the side of the car. It was all reinforced, of course, but the metal groaned under the impact. Worse, the tire on that side was hit. The car’s speed began to drag.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Feren said, looking from the dashboard back to the SUV.

“It’s a run-flat, isn’t it?” Bard demanded. “We can keep going on it.”

“Yeah, but we can’t go over ninety kilometers an hour on it if it’s going to last us back to Mirkwood.”

“Not good enough, Feren!”

“I know, give me a—hang on.” They were coming up on a bridge over a scenic little creek that ran next to the road. “All right, I’ve got an idea. Impact in three, hang on to something!” Bard grabbed the handle above the door with one hand and wrapped the other around Thranduil, and just before they hit the bridge, Feren jerked the car hard to the left. The rear panel slammed into the hood of the SUV, forcing it just far enough over that it ran directly into the bridge’s heavy-duty guardrail, which brought it to a fast and hopefully fatal stop against the bridge’s central pillar.

“ _Ada!_ ” Legolas’ voice was frantic over the phone, and as Bard eased his weight off Thranduil, he lifted it to his ear again. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Thranduil husked, almost too low to be heard. He coughed and tried again. “We’re fine. Only one left in pursuit. I need to go; I have to call the Durins.”

“Gimli already tried Gloin and Dwalin, there’s no answer.”

“Then I’ll call Thorin directly.” _Valar_ , but his head seemed to pound in time with his injuries. “Keep yourself safe. Keep them all safe.”

“I will, ada.”

Thranduil hung up before he could do something ridiculous, like tell his son goodbye as though it were the last time. He would see Legolas soon. He hit Thorin’s number, trying to ignore the reverberation of gunfire in the car, the smell and the heat of it, the way Feren weaved in an attempt to throw their final pursuer off. There was no answer from Thorin.

“Curse it,” he muttered, then tried Bilbo. Still nothing. “The Durins aren’t responding.”

“They wouldn’t double-cross you,” Bard said breathlessly, trying to work out angles of his next shots as they lurched along the road. “Bilbo wouldn’t let Thorin do that.”

“I know. I think The Shire must be under attack. Gimli got no answer either.”

“Ha!” Bard suddenly crowed. “That’s what he gets for lowering his window. Just one, maybe two left in there. If we can— _shit!_ ” The car lurched suddenly as the back tire was hit by a massive shotgun blast. Something in it must have given way completely, because the lurch turned into a tilt, and then there was—

Nothing…

But…

Air…

Thranduil reached for Bard and grabbed onto him, held him as tightly as he could because otherwise Bard was untethered, completely at gravity’s mercy. He barely had time to lock his hands together around Bard’s back before their strange twirling through space came to an abrupt and brutal stop, the car hitting on its side but rolling onto the roof as the Audi skidded down the road.

Thranduil’s grip, his damningly weak left side, couldn’t prevail against the shock of that landing. His hands burst apart and he lost his hold, and Bard bounced around the inside of the car like a rubber ball. Thranduil barely felt his own body jerk against the restraint of the seat belt, or heard the hideous _snap_ that immediately followed it. By the time they rolled to a stop all he could see was Bard, lying on his side on the battered ceiling of the car, bleeding from a dozen cuts and slashes and dangerously still.

Was Bard breathing? Thranduil couldn’t tell. He shuddered and craned his neck up to look into the front seat, but Feren was either dead or unconscious as well, because he too lay silent.

_You’re hanging upside down_ , Thranduil’s frantic sense of survival shrieked at him. _If they find you like this they’ll kill you, just shoot you where you’re tied, like a bug trapped in a spider’s web! You have to get free. You need to fight back!_ He did, he needed to…he needed…Thranduil needed a weapon. But first he needed to get down.

His right hand fumbled for the seatbelt clasp. He managed to undo it, but hitting the ceiling was its own agony, pain flaring across his left side like touching down had set off an explosion in his body. He gritted his teeth against a scream, tasting blood in his mouth. A weapon…he needed a weapon. Bard had a handgun under his jacket.

Thranduil crawled to his lover, the fuzz of adrenaline slowly returning his hearing to him, the sharpness of his vision. Bard was breathing, and Thranduil almost wept to see it, but now he could hear the heavy footsteps outside the car, coming closer. He jerked the pistol free, turned off the safety, and then…

He waited. Lay on his side as still as possible, focused his mind and quieted his breath and waited for the thick, grey-clad legs to appear in his window. He waited and listened to the man chuckle with satisfaction, waited until he was practically close enough to touch before finally taking his first shot. He fired into his assailant’s knee, and the howl of pain that won him was almost satisfying enough to persuade him to stop there.

Thranduil fired into the man’s other knee before he could limp more than a few yards away, and the brute collapsed to the ground. Oh, and this was no flunky…this was Bolg, the son of Azog, bald-headed and broken-nosed and snarling curses at Thranduil even as he brought his own gun to bear. Thranduil concentrated and shot him in the hand. That caused a beautiful spray of blood, and Bolg rolled onto his back with a snarl.

Thranduil crawled through the broken window of his car and out onto the pavement. There might be more: he didn’t care. He _couldn’t_ care right now. All that mattered was killing this one, hideous, evil creature who had come so close to ruining him in the space of only a few miles. Thranduil dragged himself up to his knees, then lifted the gun and aimed it at Bolg’s head.

“Finish me, then,” Bolg said, laughing through his pain. “The win is still mine. The end of the Durins, and crippling their allies. More than they are _already_ crippled, at least.”

“You’re right,” Thranduil murmured shakily. “It would be a win for you, if the Durins fall. But you went after what is _mine_ also, and for that insult I will have my satisfaction from you.” And he lowered the gun and fired two rounds straight into Bolg’s gut.

The hulking man’s pale skin took on a grayish hue, but he bared his bloody teeth at Thranduil in defiance. “I will _never_ give you—”

Thranduil shot him in the thigh. “You will.” He shot him again, and again. There were seventeen bullets in the magazine and Thranduil counted them all out, into shoulders and abdomen, into legs and arms, and one very satisfying one to the groin that tore the most perfect cry of agony from his foe. Only with the last bullet did Thranduil finally put the creature out of its misery, then slump back onto the ground.

He needed to get back to Bard. He needed to…he needed… A high-pitched wail approached, its crescendo so shrill Thranduil couldn’t bear to listen to it. He tried to turn away from the awful noise but all his strength was gone, and even the terrible pain faded into oblivion when he finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

 


	4. New Day's Resolutions

 

Bard thought it was awfully ironic, in the most literal sense of awful, that for all that _he_ had been the one to crack his skull against the window frame of the car during the accident, it was _Thranduil_ who ended up unconscious for almost a week. Internal bleeding, the doctors told him, as well as arrhythmia, high blood pressure, nerve damage: the list went on and on until Bard was ready to tape their mouths shut. Were these people not being paid enough for them to get to the point?

Not that he was the one paying them. That duty fell to the Durins, who had weathered their own attack against The Shire but come out little the worse for wear. Bilbo might have wanted his restaurant to be above the violence of Thorin’s business, but that didn’t mean he was caught unprepared. He had caches of weapons stored in the oddest places, apparently, and Thorin’s crew had driven back Azog’s men after Thorin himself gutted Azog. Bard still wasn’t sure he was ready to forgive them for not sharing their information earlier, for not giving Bard the tools he needed to keep his family safe, but fortunately he wasn’t the one who had to deal with them. Legolas and Gimli took care of that.

That, in the end, was the greatest positive outcome of the battles fought: Gimli had finally reconciled with his family. Legolas had come to terms with them as well, but not before he lit into the Durins like dragon’s fire over their foolishness.

“If my father doesn’t recover,” he’d snapped viciously, “there is no amount of gems or sorrows or prayers you can offer up that will _ever_ earn you the forgiveness of our family.”

And when Gimli’s astonished relatives had turned to him, looking for an ally, Gimli had only said, “Aye, I’m with him.”

Reconciliation had begun, but it was a slow thing, hampered by history and Thranduil’s enduring unconsciousness. Bard did his best to distract the children, keeping them to their school schedule—although he just couldn’t make them stay overnight at Rivendell while this was going on, he wanted them closer than that—and doing his best to stay cheerful and optimistic. Bain and Tilda _wanted_ to believe his assurances, and thus were the easiest to convince. Sigrid was harder. She had the clearest memory of her mother’s death, and the parallels between now and then were too close for her to take any comfort in them.

“Da?” she asked one evening as she and Bard sat with Thranduil, her reading to both of them from a book of fairy tales about stolen gems and immortal romances. Legolas had taken Bain and Tilda to the archery range, accompanied by Bilbo and Frodo. “It wasn’t really an accident, was it?”

Bard’s first impulse was to lie; not because he wanted to be false to his child, but because he didn’t want to worry her more than she was already inclined to do. It was nerve wracking being alone with her, with all of them, no Thranduil to fall back on if and when he failed as a parent. Still, he hadn’t done too terribly so far, so for Sigrid he tried. “No, darling. It wasn’t an accident. The car was forced off the road.”

“And Thranduil saved your life?” He gaped at her, and she blushed. “I heard Legolas talking to Gimli about it,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Bard said. “He did.” Bard might have been down for the count after the car flipped, but he did remember Thranduil reaching for him just before that. And he didn’t need to remember what came after—he’d seen the crime scene photos the cops took. Thranduil had ambushed their ambusher, laid in wait for him and assassinated him in a comprehensively brutal manner that had made more than one first responder lose their lunch. Thranduil had done that with a broken collarbone and internal bleeding, all while fighting through what was undoubtedly severe pain. Bard swallowed. “He was very brave.”

“He _is_ going to wake up soon, right?” To Bard’s horror, Sigrid’s eyes filled with tears. He crossed the room and took her into his arms in a second.

“Oh darling, of course he is. Of course. The doctors say he’s recovering well; he could wake up at any time. He might even wake up tonight.”

“And you’ll be here if he does? So you can call and let us know? No matter what time it is, Da,” she said fiercely. “Master Elrond said he’d understand if we had to miss and I’ve got plenty of friends who can take notes for me, so I don’t care if you have to call home at three in the morning, you _do_ it, all right?”

“I will.” Bard wasn’t going anywhere, although the amount of time he’d spent arguing with doctors over whether or not he had the right to stay with Thranduil past visiting hours—the _right_ , as though they weren’t married in everything but name—had been a fierce one. Dr. Lorien, the Chief Medical Officer for the hospital, had finally smoothed things over for him, but the thought that he could have been made to leave Thranduil’s side left a bitter taste in Bard’s mouth. Since winning that fight he’d been here every night, and most days too, except when Legolas came in the mornings and during two brief trips to Thranduil’s jeweler. “I’ll call right away, I promise.” He kissed the top of Sigrid’s head.

“Well…I mean…take a moment for yourself first, obviously,” his daughter added, blushing. “But _then_ call.”

“You’re so generous with my time,” Bard teased her. He would have continued, just to see her smile broaden, but there was a knock on the door. A moment later Feren stuck his head inside Thranduil’s room.

“Your carriage awaits,” he said to Sigrid, who looked at the clock and sighed.

“Fine.” She gathered up her books and tablet and, kissed Bard on the cheek, then leaned over the bed and kissed Thranduil as well. “But you _call_ us, Da,” she reminded him.

“I will, darling.” Sigrid walked out of the room, but Feren caught at Bard’s arm for a moment.

“No change?” he asked quietly. There was an undertone of guilt there that Bard had tried, and failed, to soothe away. Nothing would make Feren feel better except Thranduil waking up.

“Not yet. Soon, though. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so.” Feren left and Bard took Sigrid’s chair right beside the bed.

“You better not go making a liar out of me, now,” he chided Thranduil as he took his hand. “This nonsense has got to stop. You’ve had a good long rest, love, but now we need you back. We miss you. Legolas is doing a fine job holding the business together but he can only go for so long, and the children can’t stand to be without you and even Gimli misses you, and I…well.” Bard swallowed against the rising pressure in his throat.

“I’m no good at this, remember? Although I guess I’m not as bad as I feared, but I need you, Thranduil. I need you to wake up and look at me. I need—” He cut himself off, ashamed at his words. When had this become about what _Bard_ needed? Thranduil was the one going through the trauma, not Bard, and it wasn’t Bard’s place to put burdens of expectation on his lover that were beyond his control to meet.

“I’m sorry, love.” He lifted Thranduil’s hand to his lips and kissed his cool knuckles. “I’ll do better.” He _would_. He would fight down the rising panic; he would ignore the way he longed to be on his knees, Thranduil’s fingers woven through his hair as he moved Bard whatever way he wanted to. He would do battle with his desire for submission and relegate his self-doubts to some far, deep corner of his mind to confront later. Right now he had to be strong for his family. For his children, and for Legolas, who came every day to sit with his father and tried so hard not to break down each time.

“I’ll _be_ better.”

Bard wished he’d asked Sigrid to leave book of fairy tales with him. He didn’t like to sit in silence, but didn’t care for the blare of the television either. Eventually he settled on a newspaper, pulled out the sports section and started to read it aloud. Not even the lure of football scores could keep Bard alert for too long, though. He’d been up…oh, twenty hours now? Too long, he knew that. He folded his arms on the side of Thranduil’s bed and laid his head down. A little nap, just a few hours. Then he’d go and get a cup of dank vending machine coffee and be alert again.

Usually Bard hated to remember his dreams. They were almost always about death, about the scores of people he’d killed while under the Master’s thumb, some of them with faces and names he remembered, others lost to the hellish maelstrom of his life back then. He couldn’t recall all of their faces, but he remembered squeezing the triggers. One. _Bam._ Two. _Bam._ Three…

“No, my love.” Sweet words interrupted Bard’s kill list, and his nightmare stuttered to a halt.

“Thranduil?” Bard looked around in the darkness of his mind and didn’t see anything, but after a moment he felt that welcome, familiar pressure against his head. He sighed brokenly and shut his eyes, reveling in the gentle touch.

“Still learning to be kind to yourself, I see.”

“I…I’m trying to be better.”

“Darling, don’t you know?” Warm breath heated his ear, and his lover’s sonorous voice murmured, “You’re already the best.”

“Only when I’m with you.” Bard refused to open his eyes, not wanting the disappointment of nothingness all around him. “I wish you would wake up.”

“Funny, I wish the same thing about you.”

_What_?

“Open your eyes, my love.”

“I…no, I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” Short nails scratched blissfully across Bard’s head, making him groan with contentment. “I’m right here. Trust me.”

Bard said a silent prayer, took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The blur of sleep resolved itself quickly, and instead of looking at his unconscious partner’s face he saw—

Pale blue eyes, and a regal face softened by a smile. “Hello,” Thranduil said quietly.

Bard couldn’t speak; it was simply beyond him right now. He felt the weight of Thranduil’s real hand in his hair, and he turned his face into it and kissed Thranduil palm. He stayed that way for a long moment, pulling himself together before he finally asked, “When did you wake up?”

“I think…since you started to count. I never could sleep through that sort of distress.”

“You…” _It wasn’t sleeping_ , he wanted to yell. _It was_ emptiness, _it was_ nothingness _, it was you but gone. It was excruciating._ But Bard was trying to be better, and he could never blame Thranduil for taking the time to recover and come back to him. “We’ve missed you,” he said instead. “I…” Bard wanted to say more, he did, but his throat swelled against the precision of words, until all he was left with was the urgency of tears. They came without permission, but Bard didn’t let them stop him from rising up and kissing Thranduil until they were both breathless. Bard clasped Thranduil’s face gently and peppered his cheeks and forehead and chin. Thranduil just laid his own hands over Bard’s and let him.

“How long have I been out?” Thranduil asked once Bard’s urgency had eased somewhat. “What’s still wrong with me?”

“It’s been six days,” Bard said. “And your left collarbone is broken, and there’s some…actually, let me get the doctor, she can explain it to you better.”

“And she’s quite ready to do so,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway, and both of them turned in surprise to see Dr. Lorien standing there, one hand holding Thranduil’s chart. “I was coming to check on you anyway, Mr. Oropherion,” she continued with a slight smile. “It’s quite a pleasant change to see you awake.”

“It’s quite pleasant to be awake again,” Thranduil said, but Bard could tell it was a mixed blessing if the lines of pain in Thranduil’s forehead were anything to go by.

“It’s nice to see you as well, Mr. Bowman,” she added as she stepped inside the room. “I’m glad you were able to be here tonight.”

Thranduil’s brow furrowed. “Where else would he be?” He looked at Bard. “Unless…is something happening with the children?”

It was completely the wrong interpretation of her comment, but Bard wasn’t about to go into the yelling match he got into with Thranduil’s original doctors over family privilege before Dr. Lorien had come to his aid. “The children are fine, they’re all at home. Here, I’ll go, you two talk,” Bard said, wiping his hand over his damp face and pushing back his chair.

“You don’t have to go—” Thranduil began, but Bard shook his head.

“No, I do, I promised I’d call the children the moment you woke up and I need to touch base with Legolas, and…” And he needed a moment to collect himself, honestly. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

Dr. Lorien nodded. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

Bard made sure he had his phone, then left the room and headed outside into the cool night air. Actually, it was downright cold; he checked his phone. Ten past three in the morning, ha. Sigrid was practically prophetic.

The chill cooled Bard’s heated cheeks and swollen eyes, and after a few minutes he felt he could speak again without immediately letting the listener know that he’d been crying. He called Legolas first, but it was Gimli who picked up.

“Aye, Bard?”

“Thranduil’s awake,” Bard breathed, and there was a long sigh of relief on the other end of the line.

“That’s good news, laddie.”

“You can’t get away with that with me. I’m older than you are.”

Bard could almost hear Gimli shrug. “S’habit for anyone not of my own folk. The only person I haven’t used it on yet’s Thranduil, though I might try now he’s awake again.”

“I would pay to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

“Legolas said the same thing. He’s sleeping, by the way. He had a long day, but I’ll wake him and let him know. Anything else I should know about him? Thranduil hasn’t forgotten yer name or any of that nonsense?”

“No.” Bard was unutterably grateful for that. “He seems fine. In some pain, but that’s to be expected. I’ll call back when I have more information. And can you wake Sigrid and let her know too?” That counted as calling her too, didn’t it? She was going to end up informed, at least.

“’Course. Any idea when he’ll be coming back here?”

“Not yet. As soon as I know, you will.”

“Good. And…give him our love?” That was a tone Bard wasn’t used to hearing from Gimli, far more uncertain than his usual gruff taciturnity. In the few conversations they’d had over the past week, Bard had learned a lot about Gimli Gloinson, not the least of which was that he was staggeringly grateful to Thranduil for not spurning him and Legolas after their relationship came to light. “My poor pointy-faced princeling,” Gimli had scoffed, but his expression had been gentle. “’e talks a good game but really he’d be lost without his ada. Legolas is tough as steel, but not against those who could hurt him worst.”

“The feeling seems entirely mutual,” Bard had assured Gimli. “Thranduil would do anything for his son.”

“I reckon he has already.” And that was the end of that conversation, but obviously not the end of Gimli’s thinking about it.

“I’ll tell him,” Bard promised, and they hung up a moment later. He’d been gone for long enough. He should get back now, check in on Thranduil and see what Dr. Lorien had to say. It was strangely hard to make himself move, though. Everything he’d been thinking about this week, all the planning about what he was going to say, how he was going to confess his feelings and what he wanted—all of Bard’s confidence in his course of action had drained away. Thranduil was awake, and that was brilliant, but he probably didn’t need any extra stress right now. No big decisions, no taking care of Bard even though Bard craved it, and no answering major and unexpected questions.

Bard rubbed his thumb against the outline of the ring in his right pocket. The more he thought about it, the less sure he was that proposing was the right thing to do. Not now, when Thranduil had just woken up. Maybe once they were home, or next week sometime. Or next month, on his birthday. Or…

Screw this. Bard needed coffee. He headed back inside, got the customary vile slop from the vending machine, then went back to Thranduil’s room. Dr. Lorien was gone, and Thranduil’s bed had been raised so that his torso was elevated to a sitting posture.

“There you are. I wondered how long you would be gone.”

“Not so long,” Bard said with a smile. He took Thranduil’s good hand, but flinched when his lover winced. “What, what is it?”

“You’re cold.”

“I’m sorry, I was outside.” He tried to pull his hand back but Thranduil wouldn’t let it go.

“No, that’s mine now,” Thranduil objected. “I was just surprised, that’s all. Let me warm you up.” He ran his long, elegant fingers over the back of Bard’s rough hand, and Bard fought down the urge to get emotional again. He could be strong, damn it. He _would_ be.

“So.” Bard summoned his best easy, unaffected tone. “When can I take you home?”

 

***

 

The process of removal from the private hospital was much longer and more tedious than entering it had been. Dr. Lorien cleared Thranduil to head home after another two days of testing and a lot of instructions for Bard and the family, but that was the easiest part. The Durins wanted to meet with Thranduil as soon as they learned that he was awake, but he refused to see them while he was, in his words, “in a defensive position.”

“It isn’t a negotiation,” Bard pointed out. “Thorin just wants to see that you’re awake and recovering well.”

“It’s always a negotiation with Durins,” Thranduil replied. “Give them a minute with me now and I’ll be listening to them recount how frail I looked for the next five years. No, absolutely not.”

“Just Bilbo, then. Just to ease his mind.”

Thranduil gave in eventually, and even looked mildly cheerful at the prospect of making Thorin wait outside while his husband was invited in. Bilbo came armed with cheer, pastries and a get-well card from Frodo, complete with a drawing on the front of what was probably Thranduil, riding an elk—or maybe a moose—and wielding a sword against a horde of angry-faced bad guys. There was a lot of red in the picture.

“Frodo’s going through a Tarantino phase,” Bilbo said with a sigh as he handed the card over. “I asked him, is it absolutely necessary to add a fountain of blood from the decapitated heads? And he looked at me and very seriously told me ‘Yes,’ so there you have it.”

Thranduil looked pleased. “It’s very kind of him.”

“Oh, he’s been unduly interested in everything that’s happened lately. He and Tilda talk all the time, of course, and since none of us ended up in the hospital then _naturally_ your experience must have been far more interesting. I’m very sorry about that,” Bilbo added regretfully. “Please believe that we had no idea you would be followed that day. It was a tremendous escalation from what had basically been nuisance raids before that.”

“I understand.” A heavy _nevertheless_ hung unspoken in the room, and Bilbo sighed.

“Legolas has already given us an earful about being irresponsible, and I daresay you’ll be able to wring a few concessions out of the Durins the next time you actually feel like meeting them face to face. I just ask that you don’t repay like with like, all right? I mean…I’d love for us all to be friends, actual friends, not just allies. And it’ll take work, I know, and a lot of bending of some otherwise very stiff necks, but I think we can do it.”

“Bilbo,” Thranduil said gently, “I already consider you a friend. And I would never wish any harm on you or your family. The idea of retribution isn’t even an issue, I promise you.”

“Oh, good.” Bilbo nodded his head. “Well, that’s good. I mean, I hoped as much but I don’t like to assume. When you’re feeling well enough, come back to The Shire, I’ve got a new recipe for a vegetarian shepherd’s pie that I think you’ll enjoy. You and Bard could make a date night of it,” he said with a wink.

Oh, how Bard wanted that. But right now other people needed Thranduil’s attention more than he did.

The Durins left, the paperwork was signed, the instructions for care were repeated one more time and eventually, Thranduil was discharged. Feren drove them home, the strain in his eyes finally lifted, and once they got back…

“ADA!”

It was all Bard could do to keep Tilda from bowling Thranduil over. The children had visited him after he’d woken up, of course, but this was their first time seeing him up and walking, and they were naturally excited. All three of them took turns hugging him, carefully after Bard’s reminder to watch out for the sling cradling his left arm. Then Bain insisted on carrying Thranduil’s bags inside, and Tilda had to show him the get-well card that _she_ had made for him, happily with less blood than Frodo’s, and Sigrid kissed his cheek and held his good hand on the way into the house.

Bard kept back, quiet, and let other people have their chance with Thranduil. He didn’t need to hover, not inside their own house. Thranduil probably appreciated having a little space from him at last, even though Bard had done his best not to be clingy since Thranduil woke. All of the staff came out to welcome him home, Tauriel with pert words and a sly smile, and naturally Legolas wanted some time with his father too.

Eventually Bard wandered away to their bedroom suite and started putting away Thranduil’s things. The place smelled a bit musty—not surprising, since neither of them had been in here for more than a week. He cracked a window, and the feel of the warm, fresh air on his face was so perfect right then that he couldn’t make himself move away. Bard shut his eyes and leaned into the sunlight, hoping it would heat him some. He felt oddly cold.

Bard started when he felt a hand on his shoulder, his eyes flying open. He turned around and saw Thranduil looking at him with obvious concern. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“I…nothing,” Bard said.

“That’s clearly not true. I surprised you just by coming into the room; you’re distracted. You have been ever since I woke up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want an _apology_ ,” Thranduil insisted, not quite raising his voice but obviously upset. “I just want to know why.” He looked Bard up and down worriedly. “Does your head still hurt? I didn’t even ask about the aftereffects of the concussion, and you must be bruised everywhere—”

“ _No_!” Bard shouted, horrified. “No, that’s not—don’t worry about _me_ , I’m not the important one here. You have enough to worry about.”

“Bard.” Thranduil pinned him in place with his stare. “It’s my right to worry about you. I _want_ to worry about you, and I don’t care to be told that I can’t.”

There it was, the thread of warmth that Bard had been missing, curling into his stomach even though it came on the back of words he didn’t want to hear. “I’m fine, I am. There are no aftereffects from the concussion and I can’t even feel the bruises anymore.”

“Then something else is bothering you.”

“Thranduil…”

“Shall I _make_ you tell me?”

Bard went wobbly at the knees at the thought of being under Thranduil’s control, he longed for it so much, but no. If he was going to do this, and it didn’t seem like he really had a choice now that Thranduil had confronted him, then he would do it without being forced. He shook his head. “No, I just…I’ve had something on my mind, and…” How was he supposed to do this? Bard took a deep breath. “I almost didn’t get to stay with you at the hospital, you know.”

Thranduil frowned and opened his mouth, but Bard kept going. “And I don’t want you to think that what I’m asking is directly because of that, it isn’t, I’ve thought about it for a long time now. And I’m not asking for this because I need you to dominate me. I love that, but I don’t need it, and we wouldn’t have to formalize anything between us to keep that anyhow.” Bard knew he was talking too fast, but if he paused he might not be able to start again. “I’m asking because I’m in love with you. All right? I’m in love with you and I’m happy with you and I just want to be with you, that’s all I really need. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Bard,” Thranduil interjected, his eyes wide. “What exactly _are_ you asking?”

_Ah, right._ Bard was sure he hadn’t made such a mess of it the first time he’d proposed to someone. He reached trembling fingers into his pocket before he could convince himself not to and pulled out the ring, bright and heavy yellow gold with a line of leaf-green emeralds circling the center of it. Thranduil’s mouth dropped open.

“It was my great-grandfather’s,” Bard said, staring at Thranduil a little anxiously. “One of the few family heirlooms I was able to hide from the Master. I had it resized for you this week. I was going to wait, I know that now isn’t the best time, you’ve only just arrived home and you’re still healing and you’re tired, but Thranduil…”

“Wait, no.”

Bard’s heart stopped beating for a moment. “No?” he managed, and Thranduil looked at him, stricken.

“Oh no, not _no_ no, just…darling.” He leaned in and kissed Bard lingeringly, then said, “Wait here. Just for a moment, please.” Then he turned and walked out of the bedroom. Bard felt numb everywhere but his lips, which tingled with the aftershock of Thranduil’s kiss. What was going on?

Thranduil came back a moment later, and to Bard’s utter shock he started to ease himself down onto one knee. Bard reflexively reached out to stop him, but Thranduil shook his head.

“No, truly, I ought to be kneeling for this. It’s my turn to at last,” he added with a smile. “Bard, you remember the last thing on Tilda’s questionnaire? The one about whether or not we would change anything about each other?” Bard nodded. “What I was going to say when it was my turn, before we were interrupted, was that there was only one thing about you that I would change, and that was your name.” He held out a small black box. “I had meant to propose more elegantly, of course, but the timing seemed right, even though I’d left the ring in my office here at home.” He wiggled the box back and forth. “You’ll have to open this up for me, love.”

Bard did so, his fingers a little clumsy against the smooth velvet of the box, but once it was open… “Thranduil.” Bard had never seen a ring shine so. It was a wide, gleaming band of silvery metal with a square-cut white gem set in the top of it.

“I can get along with the Durins when I need to,” Thranduil said softly. “For something truly important. And nothing is more important to me than you. Bard Bowman, will you marry me?”

“I…” Bard couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. He put one hand over his mouth to try and stop it, but he couldn’t. When Thranduil tugged on his hand he fell easily to his knees, moved as close to his lover as he could and wrapped his arms around his waist, still laughing.

“I don’t know whether to feel encouraged or discouraged,” Thranduil remarked, and Bard shook his head and tried to get control of himself.

“En-encouraged,” he stuttered at last. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Of course I will. If you’re sure.” He looked up at Thranduil. “I’m kind of fucked up, just so you know.”

“I know exactly what you are,” Thranduil told him. “You’re perfect, and you’re _mine_. And now everyone will know it.”

And _that_ , that love and possession and control, was exactly what Bard wanted. It seemed impossible that he was actually getting it, that Thranduil was really here, doing this.

“Now give me my ring,” Thranduil said imperiously, and Bard laughed again. Yeah, he was real. He slid the ring onto Thranduil’s hand, and they both admired the way it glowed in the sunlight. “It’s beautiful,” Thranduil murmured. “Thank you for this.”

“It’s not mithril,” Bard said, because he could recognize the Durin’s signature work even if he could never have afforded it himself, “but I thought it might suit you.”

“Whereas mithril suits you perfectly.” Thranduil slipped the ring he held onto Bard’s finger. “Enduring, irresistible, and impossible to break.”

“You speak so prettily,” Bard said lightly, trying to hide just how much Thranduil’s words meant to him. Naturally Thranduil saw right through his dissemblance.

“I’m newly engaged. Allow me to wax poetic about my fiancé,” he replied. “We have a few hours to ourselves before dinner.” He pressed to his feet, waving Bard back down when he started to get up to help. “No, darling. Stay there for a moment.” Thranduil walked over to the bed and sat down, crossing his legs and leaning back onto his right hand.

“Now, my love.” Thranduil smiled brightly. “Crawl over to the chest and bring me two things you want me to use on you.”

Bard’s whole being seemed to melt into blissful pleasure, and he happily obeyed.

 


End file.
